


Birds Born In Cages

by backtoblack101



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Peggy Carter, F/F, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 05:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backtoblack101/pseuds/backtoblack101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angie's spent her entire life being told she's an abomination. Peggy's spent her entire life being told people like Angie are abominations. The question is, is it something they can overcome to be together, or is it something that they'll allow to destroy them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt sent to me on tumblr: Angie is queer and self loathing but accepting of her lot in life. Peggy is bi but in denial and super repressed. Angie gets outed to Peggy and Peggy has a negative reaction and they don't speak for a while. Cartinelli endgame with long drawn out angst and super angsty character exposition, like Angie's been disowned & subject to conversion therapies and little Peggy's parents told her queers were betraying King and Country. Lots of "Angie we can't." But then they do.
> 
> Potential tw's for conversion therapy/abuse/self-hatred

_"Birds born in a cage think flying is an illness."_

_\- Alejandro Jodorowsky_

-.-.-.-

East Harlem, New York, 1937:

“Father Morello says this is for the best.” Her mother didn’t look at her when she spoke, or when she pried Angie’s clammy hand from her wrist and pushed her further into the backseat of the car.

“Ma please.” Angie made a second grab for her mother’s hand, almost having her fingers sliced off instead when the car door snapped shut. “MA!” She screamed through the rolled up window, her voice splintering across the single syllable when her tears began to fall.

Part of her was glad for the tears as well, blurring her vision so she couldn’t see the cold, empty look on her mother’s face or the outline of her father and her two brothers watching the scene through the kitchen window.

“Do not cry Angela,” Father Morello’s voice, sweet and sticky like honey, encouraged from the front seat. “We’re going to fix you.”

“I’m not broken,” she hissed, and a clammy terror began to creep up through her skin when Father Morello just smiled at her sadly through the rear-view mirror.

“You are a sinner Angela,” he reminded her, the words less emotional than when her mother had said them, and less hateful than when it had been her father that had told her. “And sinners must be fixed in order to find salvation at God’s side.”

“God made me this way Father,” Angie spat, using her anger to mask her fear. “And he will offer me salvation when the time comes.”

“You are sixteen Angela,” Father Morello told her calmly. “You are ignorant and you fail to see that it is not God that made you this way, it is the devil trying to lure you away from your faith.” He coaxed the car to life and pulled out onto the street. “But don’t worry my child; we will fight for your redemption.”

-.-.-.-

Upper East Side, New York, 1947:

Angie’s body jolted from her restless sleep, her nightdress sticking to her clammy skin and stray strands of hair clinging to her sweat drenched forehead. Automatically she rubbed the back of her hands under her eyes to soak up her tears then slipped from beneath her blankets – the lavish silk sheets suddenly feeling suffocating.

The sun was barely making itself known over the rooftops that served as her view through her window – she never drew the curtains, the dark reminded her of one too many nights when she didn’t have the luxury of sleeping without her wrists in restraints.  She knew the time didn’t matter now though, years of nightmares had begrudgingly taught her there was nothing that could be done to get back to sleep once her anxiety had grabbed a hold of her like a vice around her chest, and so instead she took a bath towel from her dresser and decided to get an early start on her morning routine.

She turned on the faucet of the bath and poured her favourite lavender oil in through the water, allowing it to run while she settled herself in front of the grand bathroom mirror and began the painstaking task of pinning up her hair so the ends wouldn’t get damp in the water. With each pin that scraped across her scalp her fingers couldn’t help but trace the blunt edges of old scars, hidden now by her golden brown curls that grew to replace the hair that was hacked off mercilessly all those years ago.

_Pride is the worst of all sins my dear, for it festers inside us and has us believe we are above the laws of man. Your hair is a sign of your pride and it’s only when you lose it that you can begin to repent all other sins that have corrupted you._

She tried not to think about that now, she could still feel the bile rising in her stomach when she did, just like it had when she’d sat on a cold wooden stool and let the blood from her scalp mix with her tears as it ran down her face and chunks of her hair fell limp on the ground.

She pinned the final curl in place and rose from her seat to turn off the faucet, the bath now half full of water and the room filled to the brim with the warm scent of lavender. She removed her nightdress and left it on the stool she just vacated, careful not to catch a glimpse of her naked body in the mirror, then she stepped slowly into the tub trying her best not to disturb the water level too much. As soon as she’d submerged to her shoulders she could feel the tension begin to vacate her body, the fear that had previously been coiled in the pit of her stomach slowly dissipating as her clammy skin soaked thoroughly and the comforting aromas took her mind off her nightmare.

Of course the thoughts were always there, playing over and over like they had been since she’d been released on her eighteenth birthday when she was no longer eligible to be held captive in the cold walled institution. She used to just drink schnapps until her mind went hazy and numb all at once and her body retched the poisonous alcohol back out of her system, leaving a satisfying sting in the back of her throat to remind her of how she’d tried to forget. Now though there was a reason for Angie not to drink.

Now there was Peggy.

_An eternity in hell for you Angela Martinelli if you ever look at a woman as you should look at a man._

Peggy Carter with her enviously coiffed hair and her perfectly carved legs and her lips – oh her lips, a shade of red that reminded Angie of the devil himself and made her think that sinning couldn’t be all that bad.

Peggy may have saved Angie from a lifetime of sadness though as Angie’s hand slipped down the length of her stomach to the growing heat between her legs she reminded herself that just as much as Peggy Carter had saved her she’d damned her to an eternity of suffering she’d gladly accept.

She rubbed vicious circles against her clit with her fingertips all the while imagining Peggy being the one coming undone beneath her touch. Imaging the delicate hitch of the Englishwoman’s breath or the way she’d groan Angie’s name and arch her body desperately into the touch. She pushed her fingers down harder and faster feeling the burn in her wrist until she could feel the tension in the pit of her stomach winding so tight she knew she was about to come undone. With an angry strangled cry she pulled her fingers away from her crotch, refusing herself the release her body ached for, and instead brought her hand, still slick with sex and water, to pinch the bridge of her nose while hot, angry tears began to seep down her cheeks like acid.

“Fuck…” She muttered into the cavernous bathroom space around her. “Fuck,” she repeated again, between her legs still throbbing even as all the self-loathing came rushing back like a tidal wave and the words of her therapist rung in her head.

_You are defective Angela._


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so tw's for anxiety/panic attacks, conversion therapy, homophobia and....torture, kinda?

Upper East Side, New York, 1947:

The sun still hadn’t fully risen when Angie was finally through with her morning routine and ready to face the day. She knew though that her and Peggy both had the luxury of Sundays off so rather than shuffle around her room for another half hour she wrapped herself in a dressing gown and decided to take the opportunity to get a head start on breakfast before her friend got out of bed. She felt French Toast might be the way to go this morning, something simple yet delicious that would free up their day for them to do something fun rather than be left cleaning the kitchen for an hour and so Angie set to work, whisking her milk and eggs together and heating up her pan.

It only took two minutes and yet by the time she was ready to soak the first slice of bread in the mixture she could hear Peggy’s soft footfalls on the landing overhead. She smiled; imaging in spite of herself Peggy’s tired eyes and mused hair, or the way her pyjama top would be ever so slightly rumpled after a night of heavy sleep. She knew she shouldn’t encourage the thoughts but there was just something so blissfully domestic about her preparing breakfast while her friend had a lie in that allowed her to push past the resentment that simmered inside her, even if it was just for a few moments.

“M’rning,” Peggy mumbled, dragging herself in through the kitchen door, just as perfectly dishevelled as Angie had imagined. “Oh!” Her face perked up when the first soaked slice of bread hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle. “You’re making breakfast.”

“Well considerin’ it’s Sunday I thought I’d treat ya,” Angie explained, never looking up from the second slice of bread she was allowing to saturate in the mixture.

“Honestly Angie you’re too good to me,” Peggy replied with a smile that made Angie’s heart soar and her stomach churn with self-loathing all at once.

Before she could mask her mixed emotions with a witty retort however the phone in the next room saved her the trouble when it began to ring. “I would get it,” Angie began while she lay the second slice of saturated bread out on the pan. “But I’m up to my elbows in batter and it’s probably one of those work calls you never let me listen in on anyway.”

“You know it could be for you…” Peggy huffed although she was already leaving the room even before Angie choked out a humourless laugh.

Of course Peggy didn’t know _why_ her family never called, though considering it was her job to notice things she’d of course picked up on the fact that Angie called her mother once a week on a Tuesday evening for exactly fifteen minutes of tense conversation before slamming the phone back on the receiver and announcing to Peggy that she needed a stiff drink. Peggy had tried to pry once but Angie had shrugged off the obviously tense relationship simply claiming her family hadn’t taken well to her wanting to be an actress. Of course this didn’t account for why it was only Angie’s mother that actually still spoke to her though Angie was thankful that her housemate never _really_ pried.

Angie returned her attention to the French Toast and by the time she heard Peggy end what had been a typically hushed phone call she had all six sliced laid out on two separate plates and dusted in sugar. She took it to the table then went to the fridge for orange juice and the press for glasses, having it all set out by the time Peggy re-entered the room.

“Lemme guess, our day off ain’t gonna go like I planned it?” Angie sighed, not bothering to look up from the slice of toast she was cutting into.

“Angie that wasn’t work…”It was something about Peggy’s choked up voice that snapped Angie’s head up from her plate, only then noticing her friend’s ghost like complexion and the way her face was twisted in some unreadable emotion.

“Pegs is there somethin’ the matter?” Instinctually Angie dropped her knife and fork and slid out of her chair, ready to comfort her friend.

Instead though she was met by Peggy’s outstretched hand, blocking her progression. “It was your mother Angie…”

Now it was Angie’s turn for the colour to drain from her face. “Oh, wh-what uh, did she… I mean, what-“ Angie clenched and unclenched her hands willing them to stop shaking as terror built up inside her like a balloon being overfilled with air, one breath away from exploding.

“Your father passed away last night,” Peggy explained, though she showed no sign of offering comfort. “She wanted to know if you’d be attending the wake or funeral.”

“Oh,” Angie muttered and just for a second some of the tension in her chest slipped away.

“You don’t seem upset,” Peggy noted and Angie didn’t miss the way she took a half step back.

“I’m not,” she shrugged because there was no point in lying now, she could see in Peggy’s expression she understood perfectly what was going on – why Angie never talked to her family, why she didn’t care that her father was dead, why her mother had no doubt been shocked when it had been woman’s voice aside from Angie’s that had answered the phone.

“Does your not being upset have anything to do with your mother being surprised that you live with me?” There it was, the need for conformation that Angie had experienced from too many people already.

First it was her mother when she’d been caught flicking through the pages of one of her brothers dirty magazines. She’d asked her much in the same way you’d ask a child if they had a tummy ache after eating too much cake – Angie had almost felt no shame at all. Then it had been her father, sitting across the table from her with disgust written across his face in a way Angie would never forget. He’d asked her the same way you’d ask a convict if they had any last words before facing the electric chair – it was cold and distant and Angie realised right then and there she’d never be on the receiving end of another one of her father’s crushing bear hugs again. Then had been the turn of Father Morello asking her with the same tone he took when preaching to his congregation – it was the smallest Angie had ever felt and also coincidentally the closest she’d ever come to vomiting in front of another person.

Now it was Peggy asking her the same way Angie imagined she’d ask an agent if they screwed up on an assignment – it was cold but not quite hateful and yet it was the worst Angie had ever felt when the question was asked.

“Yea.” Angie bobbed her head slowly and sent up a quick prayer to a God she was sure had abandoned her years ago. “Yea you could say those things are connected.”

“Well fuck…” Peggy whispered though it wasn’t the contempt in her tone that tore Angie to shreds, instead it was the way she stepped back again and crossed her arms over her chest, effectively shutting herself off completely.

“Listen Peg I can explain…” she began desperately though Peggy’s harsh, icy tone cut through her sentence.

“Explain why you’ve been manipulating me and lying to me this whole time, or explain to me why it is you chose such a shameful path for yourself in the first place?” Her tone was as level as it would be if she were ordering lunch from Angie in the L&L and yet Angie wished she was screamed, wished she was roaring at her until her voice went hoarse because at least then maybe there’d be an excuse for the tears that were suddenly spilling down her cheeks.

“I didn’t…” she whimpered, the lump in her throat impairing the end of her sentence.

“Didn’t what? Didn’t lie to me?” Peggy sneered. “Because from where I’m standing that’s how it seems.”

“Didn’t choose this,” Angie corrected, her tone as close to angry as she could muster given the way anxiety was steadily creeping up inside her, threatening to asphyxiate her at any second.

“Queers aren’t just _born_ Angie,” Peggy told her as if she were the first person ever let her know. “You’re ill or… or…”

She faltered just for a second and Angie knew she had to get out before she finished the sentence so she ran. She ran and she ran barely even registering the way Peggy flinched out of the way as she passed her, her vision blurry and fading out around the edges letting her know she needed to go somewhere quiet, somewhere her panic attack could consume her without another word of Peggy’s vengeful hatred reaching her ears. The coat cupboard next to the front door was the first place she found and she threw herself inside, nestling in amongst the winter jackets just as her panic reached its peak and plunged her body into a cold terror – her heart like a jackhammer against her ribcage and her breaths so sharp and shallow she feared her lungs may rip in two.

Years of experience had taught her better than to give in to the gripping fear that she knew could so easily consume her and so tried to slow her breathing, just like she’d done on so many occasions in the past.

-.-.-.-

Kings Park Psychiatric Centre, New York, 1937:

“P-please,” Angie stammered around a ragged breath. “Stop… stop…” She tugged against the restraints on her arms, feeling the leather cutting into her wrists.

“Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee,” the faceless priest at the foot of her bed continued, oblivious to Angie’s inability to breath. “Blessed art thou amongst woman and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…”

Each dull line of the prayer was punctuated with a slap to the bare soles of her feet with a thin wooden stick and each time she attempted to jerk away only to find that the leather straps around her ankles seemed to close in even tighter against her skin. Apparently she hadn’t been responding well enough in her first week of therapy or in her twice daily confessions, apparently her refusal to admit to her sin had led to the decision that she could only see the err of her ways through suffering; a decade of the rosary and a round of lashes every night until they got what they wanted from her both in confession and in her therapy sessions.

Angie was very quickly realising this was a fight she would never win.

The thought was calming at first, like now that she knew she was going to lose she finally felt okay with succumbing to the defeat and letting them “cure” her. Just as quickly as that calm came though it was replaced with a nauseating tightness in her chest that prevented her lungs from expanding and left her heart drumming unevenly against the ribcage it was pressed up against. All of a sudden the weight of what she was being forced to endure hit her all at once and when the edges of her vision started to fade she realised she was going to die.

She stopped pleading with them then, or maybe she started to scream because at the same time the priests repetition of the Hail Mary was drown out her throat began to burn and her lungs stopped taking in oxygen and just for a fleeting second before she passed out she felt the faintest swell of pride in amongst the terror because at least they’d killed her before they’d forced her to confess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also just for the record I am Catholic, so this fic is in no way coming out of a place of hatred for the Catholic church. However while Catholic teachings doesn't promote violence like what Angie was forced to endure a lot of the clergy at the time would have (some of the clergy today probably still would) and therefore Catholicism is in a lot of ways being painted as the big bad guy in this fic... because that's how Angie would have seen it. So yea....


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i've had this chapter written for a while but I was at pride all weekend so i've only gotten a chance to post it now (i'd apologize but I've had such a great/gay weekend i don't even care)
> 
> I don't think there's any tw's in this chapter, this is more just a chapter about filling in bits of Peggy's back story in all this

St Martin-In-The-Fields High School for Girls, London, 1932:

“Margret Carter!” Peggy jolted at the sound of her name, head snapping back to the front of the class where her English teacher, Ms Duncan, was giving her a look so cold she felt herself shrinking on the spot. “Can you tell me, Margret, what it was we were just discussing?”

“The importance of Lady Macbeth in Macbeth’s demise,” she rhymed off hopefully, though she could see some of the girls around her cringing at the answer.

“That would be correct Margret, had I asked you the question ten minutes ago,” her teacher snapped in response and Peggy knew on instinct she was up shit creek without a paddle. “Care to inform the class what it was you found more interesting than Lady Macbeths psychosis?”

No was the first word that came to mind, though Peggy knew that wasn’t an option. Then again, telling her teacher than she’d been staring at Elizabeth Andrews and admiring the way the sunlight reflected off her perfect golden curls wasn’t exactly an option either and so instead she went for plan C.

“I’m sorry ma’am I lost focus,” she lied expertly. “It’s my uh, lady time.” An excuse that had gotten her out of many sticky situations in her years at private school and yet the hard look that remained in Ms Duncan’s eyes told her the lie had done little to subdue her teacher’s anger.

“You will be staying behind after class Margret, we can talk then.”

All heads in the room turned discreetly to face her, most of her classmates shocked, some of them amused, and she felt a distinct heat rising in her cheeks. “Yes ma’am,” she muttered, head dipping into her copybook in front of her, willing the last ten minutes of the lesson to pass without further attention being drawn to her.

So she kept her head down and nodded along to Ms Duncan’s slow drone until at last the final bell sounded out and nineteen pairs of eyes gave her similar looks of pity as they filed out past her and she stood at the head of the room waiting for Ms Duncan to wipe the lesson off the board.

“You say it’s your ladies time Margret?” Ms Duncan asked casually, wiping the last sentence and returning the eraser to her desk drawer before turning to face Peggy.

“Yes ma’am,” Peggy nodded quickly – the sooner she got this over with the sooner she’d be free to enjoy her Friday evening.

“And tell me Margret, does your menstruation affect your mentality in any way?” Ms Duncan asked just as casually, though Peggy knew now she was building to something.

“Uh no ma’am, no it doesn’t,” Peggy tried to maintain eye contact though the sudden bout of nerves she was feeling was making it increasingly difficult.

“Then why is it Margret that I caught you staring at Elizabeth Andrews when you should have been focusing on my lesson?” The quirk of Ms Duncan’s eyebrow let Peggy know she’d been caught and yet her instinct was still deny, deny, deny.

“Ma’am I wasn’t I – that would be ridiculous I was… looking out the window and perhaps you thought I was looking at Beth bu-“

“But you weren’t because that would be unnatural, wouldn’t it Margret?”

Peggy nodded slowly. “Yes ma’am.”

“And you know girls with unnatural desires go to prison, don’t you Margret?”

Peggy let out a slow breath through her nose, willing herself not to panic. “Yes ma’am.”

“You’re a young lady Margret, you must conduct yourself as such.” It was said like a threat and Peggy’s back went rigid when she responded.

“Yes ma’am.”

-.-.-.-

Upper East Side, New York, 1947:

Peggy watched the last embers in the fire die out in the hearth, the ice melted in the glass of scotch she’d been cradling in her hands for the past hour. She hadn’t seen Angie since the confrontation that morning though the younger woman had left a note pinned to her bedroom door explaining that she’d decided to go home and help her mother out for a few days then she’d be back to collect her things.

Peggy figured it was for the best.

Naturally it would take Angie a few days to find somewhere new to stay and in the meantime it was probably better that they didn’t interact. Better for whom Peggy wasn’t quite sure, but she knew it would be better. The thought of spending time with Angie now that she knew her to be a queer frightened Peggy in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on, though the understanding and articulation of her emotions had never been something Peggy claimed to have a grasp on.

Perhaps that’s why she’d reacted quite so drastically when Angie had finally confessed her true self to her as well. Of course she’d always known homosexuality was deviant and wrong but the things she’d said – _the way she’d said them –_ Angie was supposed to be her friend, her best friend, and for her to find such anger and disgust boiling insider her was something Peggy had never expected of herself.

She told herself it was the shock. She told herself it was because she’d never suspected it from someone like Angie – someone so _normal._ She’d been taught a very specific idea of what queerness looked like and Angie’s complete bypassing of the stereotype had simply thrown her.

-.-.-.-

London, England, 1932:

“Margret, a moment?” Her parents were sitting in the front reception room, eyes trained on the door to call Peggy aside the second she returned from town with her brother.

Peggy ignored the sympathetic side glance from her brother and proceeded diligently into the room, willing her hands not to twitch and her back not to droop – really just willing her body to remain as lady like as possible in the presence of her mother and father.

“Your skirt’s crooked,” her mother pointed out instantly, like she’d been trying to find a flaw to pick at from the second Peggy had stepped in the door.

“Sorry ma’am,” Peggy straightened it until the pleats lay perfectly against her legs.

“We received a letter from your school today Margret,” her father began then, once he was sure his wife was finished correcting Peggy’s appearance. “Apparently before Christmas break you found yourself in a spot of bother with Ms Duncan?”

“An error on my part sir,” Peggy explained quickly – her father hated tardiness. “I lost focus in her class. I assure you though it doesn’t happen often.”

“Your focus isn’t my concern Margret, you’ve never been one to fall behind in your studies,” he explained calmly. “My concern, and your mothers concern, is what it was you were focusing on instead of your lesson on Shakespeare.”

“Pardon?” Peggy felt her cheeks begin to flame at the turn the conversation had taken, and she could see her father’s ears and neck turn a similar shade of red for the same reason.

“In the letter it says you were staring at a girl called Elizabeth Andrews in a _love struck_ kind of way.” Her mother quoted the end of the sentence carefully then fixed Peggy with a pointed look. “Do we have reason to be worried Margret?”

“No!” Peggy replied instantly, her eyes going wide. “No of course not, I don’t… I don’t look at girls in that way.” Of course Beth was pretty and of course Peggy noticed the waves in her hair and the lilt of her laugh but that didn’t mean anything, she noticed similar things in men too.

“We didn’t raise you to be a social deviant Margret,” her mother reminded her, though it sounded more like a threat. “Young ladies like you, women that dress well and carry themselves well, women that embrace their femininity, they are _not_ social deviants Margret.”

“I’m not,” Peggy insisted, her nails digging into the palms of her hands in a desperate bid to prevent her voice from shaking. “I’m attracted to men, only to men, I have no interest in girls in the way you think, I swear.”

-.-.-.-

Upper East Side, New York, 1947:

She knew in her heart of hearts it was something more than Angie’s femininity that had thrown her though. She knew deep down there was something there, something she hadn’t quite figured out, but whatever it was had buried itself so deep in the centre of her chest all she was left to remind herself of it was a dull ache letting her know she’d fucked up.

Peggy put down her scotch on the side table and rose from the couch. Sleep was what she needed right now and then perhaps a day or two to figure everything out so as when Angie did come back to collect her things she could offer the younger woman something more than stern judgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay the next chapter might take a while bc i'm going to Germany for a week, but if I get a chance to write it I'll post it on Tuesday before I go!!


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay didn't get a chapter up before I went to Germany but hopefully this will make up for it (also, wow, hope you kids like exposition!!).
> 
> Um, tw's in this chapter for conversion therapy and i suppose like... mental abuse kinda.

East Harlem, New York, 1947:

Angie’s room was cleared out the day after Father Morello took her away. Apparently her father had thought it best not to dwell on the daughter they’d once had, or at least that had been her mother’s excuse when she’d led Angie into her old room with nothing but a bed, a chest of drawers and ten years’ worth of dust still present in the once cluttered space.

“He would have still been glad you were here,” her mother whispered before leaving her alone with her overnight bag in the cavernous space, not waiting around to hear Angie’s disbelieving laugh.

She stepped over to her chest of drawers and traced the scrapes and dents left in the wood through years of use all the while wondering what her father would really make of her setting foot in her childhood home for the first time in ten years. Spit on her probably, or at least that’s what he’d promised to do if he ever saw her inside his home again and Martinelli’s were nothing if not true to their word. Then again, Angie had promised herself she’d never set foot in the house that had represented everything she hated about herself and yet here she was, unzipping her overnight bag and laying out her funeral outfit so it wouldn’t get creased.

Then again, desperate times and all that.

Not that she wanted to think about what had happened between her and Peggy that morning, though it was the only thing her mind would allow her to dwell on, playing the interaction over and over until every line of disgust on Peggy’s face was burned into Angie’s memory. She needed time to collect her thoughts and, for the first time in eight years, her parents’ house was only the second worse place she could think to be.

She shuffled over to her bed and laid herself out across the aged mattress, listening to the rusted springs groining with the first weight they’d had to support in ten years and watching clouds of dust floating into the musky air. It was half an hour before guests were due to start arriving for the house mass and although Angie had no interest in seeing her extended family or Father Morello she’d promised her mother she’d show her face. Still though half an hour was plenty of time between now and then for her to allow her mind to wander to places it shouldn’t.

-.-.-.-

Kings Park Psychiatric Centre, New York, 1937:

“Angela tell me, how was it your parents discovered your illness?” Her therapist looked at her with eyes that on her first day here she’d mistaken as kind – then he’d been the one to demand she forego three days of meals in order to sharpen her mind for the questions he had to ask her.

“My mother caught me with one of my brothers magazines… one of the smutty picture ones.” She didn’t look him in the eye when she spoke – she never looked anyone in the eye anymore.

“And before you were caught with the magazine, had you ever indulged your homosexual tendencies?” _Tendencies,_ they liked that word, as if they were trying to correct something as simple as Angie’s _tendency_ to pick at her cuticles.

The minute he asked the question a brief image of raven black coils of hair and caramel brown skin flashed in front of Angie’s eyes though she was already shaking her head. “No, never before.”

Now more than ever she avoided eye contact, knowing that one look and her therapist would see long nights of stolen kisses under the thin cover of Angie’s duvet playing out in her pupils like a film reel. Lucy was a year older and lived two blocks over and Angie swore the first time they met she’d fallen in love. She walked with an air of confidence Angie envied and she possessed beauty that could start a war and yet for four short months she’d chosen to be Angie’s.

Angie never quite figured out whether Lucy was experienced or whether she was just as confident in all things as she was in her walk but either way she’d taught Angie everything about who she was, including the simple fact that it wasn’t an illness, it was a gift and she was never to let anyone tell her otherwise.

“Are you sure about that Angela?” His tone was so sweet it made her want to vomit.

“Positive,” she snarled, angry that he didn’t trust her and even angrier that they were trying to make her believe she was sick at all. “And for the record it’s not my homosexual _tendencies_ , it’s who I am.” This time Angie did look up, just in time to catch her therapist cast a worried glance at the priest that stood silently next to the door.

-.-.-.-

East Harlem, New York, 1947:

“Angela?” Her mother knocked softly on her bedroom door, afraid to cross the threshold into what seemed to have become a forbidden space. “Father Morello’s ready to begin the mass…”

The name of her old parish priest was enough for fear to seep back into every pore of Angie’s body, filling her to the brim with a heavy kind of terror like someone had poured a bucket of cement down her throat and let it set inside her. She’d known Father Morello as long as she could remember. He’d baptised her, performed her communion and conformation, and listened to every single one of her confessions over the years.

At one point she’d even considered him something of a hero. A man that her entire extended family seemed to worship and why wouldn’t they? After all he volunteered to help the homeless, he visited the homes of those who were sick to offer them words of encouragement and no matter the time, be it day or night, he was always there to listen to the troubles of one of his parishioners. A true man of God – that’s what her mother had called him when Angie went to her first confession the week before her communion – the kind of man all men should aspire to be.

Those were the memories Angie had of Father Morello growing up, but it wasn’t the memory she held onto now. Now when she heard his name through her door only one image of him clawed its way to the forefront of her mind.

-.-.-.-

Kings Park Psychiatric Centre, New York, 1939:

“So I can go?” Angie whispered hoarsely, the clothes she’d come in wearing two years ago hanging awkwardly on her gangly pointed body.

“We do not advise it Angela.” The foreboding tone of the nameless priest that stood stoic in front of her did little to deter her and she even chanced half a smile.

“But you can’t stop me…” She reminded him, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks even though she’d sworn to herself she wouldn’t cry.

“You’re eighteen now, so no, we cannot stop you.”

“Okay…” Angie nodded more to herself than to the priest. “Well okay then.” She clutched her small shopping bag of belongings close to her chest and pushed past him towards the set of doors she’d stepped in through two years previously – doors she never thought she’d walk through again.

The exterior of the Kings Park Centre stood eleven stories high, the red brick casting a long shadow out across the front path Angie walked down towards the kerb. She hadn’t been expecting anyone to be waiting for her – her mother had called a week earlier to explain her father had forbidden her or anyone else in the family from being there to greet her (she liked to tell herself it didn’t bother her anyway) – however parked along the side of the street was the same car she’d been bundled into two years previously, the man leaning against the hood baring an all too familiar face.

“Father,” she greeted, the single word feeling like acid against the roof of her mouth.

“Your mother told me you were discharging yourself Angela,” he explained by way of his own greeting, his eyebrows knit together to convey something Angie supposed was worry. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Thank you for your concern father,” Angie replied, willing her voice to remain steady. “But I’m not a child anymore, you can’t control me.”

“Angela you seem to be mistaken, I never wanted to control you,” Father Morello insisted, his voice just as sickly sweet as it had been the day he took her away. “I merely wanted what was best for you.”

“You think locking me up was what was best for me?” She seethed, feeling her two years of anger rising inside her all at once like molten lava burning in her throat. “You think the torture I’ve endured for the past two years was what was _best_ for me?” She took a step closer, her hands balling into fists around her shopping bag. “I have been beaten and starved and ridiculed and humiliated for two fucking years and you think that was for the best?”

“Angela, my dear, it’s understandable for you to be frustrated,” Father Morello tried to reason. “I’ve spoken with your councillors and they tell me your treatment hasn’t yet had the desired effect, though you mustn’t become discouraged.” He smiled his sickly sweet smile. “Allow me to bring you back in… just one more year and-“

“You sick son of a bitch,” Angie hissed, barely containing her desire to reach out and slap him. “You locked me away in there for two years. Two years I’m never getting back all because of _you_ and now you wanna send me back?” She managed to choke out a humourless laugh. “You’re a real vile man Father Morello, a real vile piece of shit.” Then she turned away from him stalking off down the street not quite sure where it would take her.

“You’re sick Angela,” he called after her, his voice floating in through the wall of rage in her head. “You need my help.”

“No,” she screamed, halting half ways down the sidewalk to turn back to him. “You’re the sick one father, I’m a survivor.”

-.-.-.-

East Harlem, New York, 1947:

“Angela,” Father Morello greeted her like an old friend the second she stepped into the cramped living room. “How are you doing my dear?” He tried to put a hand on her shoulder though she shrugged away from him before his bony fingers could touch her.

“Fine,” she spit out through a clenched jaw, moving away from him before he could say another word.

She couldn’t go far though, a single long look around the room told her that much. Family and friends she’d known her entire life looked down at their laps when her eyes landed on them, each of them praying that her and her sickness keep well away. Then her eyes landed on her brother Marco, the only person in the room that didn’t look away. Instead he motioned to the seat beside him then smiled when she stepped across the room towards him.

“How ya doin’ Ang?” He nudged her shoulder with his own when he asked the question and for the first time since she’d stepped into the house Angie didn’t feel like an outsider.

“Been better, been worse,” she shrugged, finding some of the tension leaving her shoulders just from sitting next to her big brother. “How’re Lisa and the kids?”

“Swell Angie, real swell,” Marco nodded happily, and Angie was almost jealous of the way his face lit up. “Theresa’s turnin’ four next week and Dominic, ah Angie I wish you could see him he’s gettin’ real big.”

“I wish I could see him too Marco,” Angie agreed, not meaning to sound as sad as she did. “I’m sure he looks just as much of a goofball as his father,” she added, trying to save the thirty seconds of casual conversation she’d managed, though she could tell from the look of pity in her brother’s eyes she hadn’t quite succeeded.

“You know it’s Lisa and Ma, Angie,” he began, looking like he’d accidentally stood on a dogs paw. “They just don’t want you round the kids is all…”

“I know, I know,” Angie insisted, patting his knee as reassuringly as she could muster. “You just keep the cute pictures comin’ my way and I won’t mind one bit,” she added with a laugh she hoped didn’t sound too forced.

“Funny you should say that,” Marco exclaimed then, reaching down into the pocket of his good trousers and pulling out an envelope. “Took these two weeks back,” he explained, sliding it into Angie’s hand. “Don’t open them ‘til later though, don’t want Ma knowin’ I give you these.”

“For a guy that teased me for three years for havin’ big feet you sure are a swell guy,” Angie huffed, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks as she stuffed the envelope into her dress pocket.

“Yea, yea, you’ve still got big feet,” he shot back with a cheeky smile. “Now tell me,” he added after a brief silence. “How’s my little sister really doin’?”

“I dunno Marco…” She shrugged and looked out across the room, everyone now preparing for Father Morello to begin his mass. “Though I don’t think I can take another day of this.”

“You gonna go back to that big fancy house of yours with that fancy friend you tell me so little about?”

“I dunno…” Angie shrugged again, wiping away a single stray tear that had managed to escape. “Not sure if I’ve a place there anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also the house mass thing is something we do in Ireland when someone dies. I mean it's not so much a mass as it is a bunch of ppl sitting around the coffin while the priest rhythms off decades of the rosary but yea, figured I'd explain that in case it wasn't a common thing outside of Ireland?? (also on that note I've no idea if it would be done in Italian families, it was just something to move plot forward).


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw's for blood. Aside from that this chapter's a good one.

Upper East Side, New York, 1947:

Jarvis called at seven thirty the next morning to let Peggy know Angie would be over at some point during the day to collect her things – apparently the waitress had thought it best to give Peggy some kind of forewarning. He apologised profusely for the inconvenience of calling so early and Peggy had waved it off with an insistence that she’d been awake already, only a white lie considering she’d not yet slept at all.

Not for lack of trying of course. She’d marched upstairs at half eleven the previous evening with the intention of giving her body a break from the questions she’d been asking herself over and over all day though the second her head hit the pillow her mind seemed to go into overdrive, the questions only seeming to get louder the more she tried to drown it out.

_Why did you push her away? Why can’t you accept her? Why is this so hard for you? Why? Why? Why?_

The questions pounded against her skull like a jackhammer demanding her attention and yet each time she tried to find reason behind her actions the same imagine of Angie standing in front of her, terrified and broken, flashed in front of her reminding her there were no excuses and that there was no reasoning. So instead she tossed and turned and squashed her own half assed apologises before they could even form fully in her head, almost crying out in relief when Jarvis’s call broke through the deafening silence and gave her a reason to get out of bed again.

At first she considered leaving the house for the day because in her head no apology was better than half an apology. She’d only made it as far as the front door though before her conscience caught up with her and she stood frozen, her fingers half curled around the handle and her jacket half buttoned.

“You’re a coward Carter,” she whispered into the empty space around her, leaning forward until her forehead knocked softly against the cold, oak frame. “A bloody coward.” Her fist swung forward, connecting with the door with a deafening slam. “Fuck,” she muttered, her head still resting against the door when she swung her fist forward again, feeling the vibration shattering through her body. “Bloody fuck.”

It was childish, she knew, letting out her frustration in such a physical way. Her entire life she’d been taught better than to pound her first repeatedly against the closest solid object until blood trickled down between her knuckles and stained the sleeve of her crisp white shirt, but right now all she’d been taught about a stiff upper lip failed her in the same way it had failed her yesterday when Angie had stood in front of her silently pleading for acceptance.

“Why? Why? Why?” She seethed, each word punctuated with a punch until the door was sticky with her blood. “Why can’t you just-“ she filled the room around her with a frustrated scream, backing away slowly from the door and letting hot tears burn tracks down her cheeks. “Why is this so hard?” She asked herself finally, her vision blurry and her hand aching.

There was no one around to answer her question though, no one around to tell her what to do and so instead she wandered to the kitchen to get ice for her hand then situated herself in the front room of the house, counting down the minutes on the grandfather clock that stood against the wall opposite her.

An hour, two hours, three hours, an entire lifetime seemed to pass before she heard a car door slamming outside. The sun was beginning to set and when she went to stand her bones ached from hours spend in the same position. She glanced down at her right hand, her ice-pack long since melted, almost proud of the angry red swell around her knuckles and the scabbing tears in her skin. Her hand hurt too, a numb kind of ache, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it because she could hear Angie’s key scraping in the lock and she could feel her heart sinking down into her stomach at the thought of the confrontation she was about to have. Somewhere in the back of her mind a voice reminded her it wasn’t too late to run but she could already hear the front door crack open and something inside her drew her legs into motion until she found herself standing in the hall facing Angie who looked just as petrified as last time Peggy had seen her.

“Peggy…” Her name sounded like a plea as it fell from Angie’s lips.

“Angie…” She began dumbly but then her mouth went dry and her throat closed up and they were just left staring at one another in a silence that seemed to stretch out for an eternity.

“I thought you’d have gone out or…” Angie faltered, her eyes staring a hole into the polished wood floor.

“I was going to…” Peggy explained and she knew she was fucking this whole thing up but for some reason now that she was actually facing Angie she found herself incapable of even the most basic of excuses. “I thought… I thought perhaps it would be easier but I… it…” She couldn’t do it; she needed to take a step back. “How was the funeral?” She asked instead, the words sounding far more forced and awkward than she’d intended.

“I didn’t go,” Angie shrugged, her fingers fidgeting awkwardly with the sides of her dress. “I couldn’t go…” She corrected after a beat, glancing at Peggy to gauge her reaction and to offer her a contorted kind of half smile. “It was too much… too much for me to um, deal with or…” She shrugged again though now that she’d started speaking her natural defence mechanism for rambling kicked in. “I left this mornin’ before anyone was up and I just wandered for the day thinkin’ and stuff, y’know, and uh, tryin’ to… tryin’ to figure out a way to apologise to you I guess if I did see you and well…” She attempted to laugh though the sound stuck in her throat. “Now I have seen you an’ all I’m doin’ is yammerin’ on when I should be sayin’ sorry because I am sorry Peggy, I’m real sorry that I hid this from you and I’m sorry that-“

“No,” Peggy cut her off, the word sounding more like a growl than a word at all. “No _you_ don’t apologise, that’s not.” She balled her hands into fists to try and will away her tears. “That’s not what this is… this isn’t where you say sorry this is… this is…”

Then it hit her.

Like a freight train traveling full speed the truth hit Peggy hard in the centre of her chest and she couldn’t breathe, or speak, or think. All she could do was let her legs carry her slowly towards Angie, who seemed rooted to the spot in fear.

“This is where I say sorry,” she whispered, her hands gently cupping Angie’s cheeks and pulling their lips together slowly, waiting for Angie to pull back but never feeling it happen.

Her lips were warm but chapped and her breath was a little stale but Peggy kissed her like her life depended on it, her fingers clutching to the corners of Angie’s jaw desperately holding her in place even after she started to kiss back. The kiss was salty as well and it took Peggy a full minute to realise the taste came from the tears that were rushing down her cheeks and mixing with the saliva on the tips of their tongues.

“Oh god,” she whispered suddenly, finally feeling the tears on her cheeks and realising what she was doing. “Oh god…” She pulled back and found Angie’s eyes as wide as her own.

“Peggy… you just kissed me?”


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw's for conversion therapy

Upper East Side, New York, 1947:

_“Peggy… you just kissed me?”_

The words echoed around the hall and all Peggy could do was trace her kiss swollen lips with the tips of her fingers, still feeling them tingle from the way Angie’s tongue had run across them and the way her teeth had gently nipped at the edges. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, this wasn’t how things were supposed to be, this wasn’t _who_ she was supposed to be and yet here she was standing in front of Angie with a dumb expression on her face wishing she could just lean in and kiss her again.

-.-.-.-

St Martin-In-The-Fields High School for Girls, London, 1933:

Storms never bothered Peggy. Lord knows she was living in the wrong country if they did. She liked the sound of the rain pelting against the windows and the low, grumbling roll of thunder in the distance, and she liked the way the dormitories lit up each time a fork of lightning cracked through the sky – it made her feel settled in a way she could never quite explain. Even on a school night like tonight, when she knew she’d have to be up in just five hours for lessons, she fought off her fatigue for the chance to watch the storm unfold through the window across from her bed.

It was only after the third heavy roll of thunder that she realised she wasn’t the only one still awake in the dormitory. “Peggy?” The urgent whisper came from the bed to her left and so she turned away from the window and towards the dark outline across from her.

“Beth?” Peggy’s brow knit together in confusion – not that the expression could be seen in the dark. “Why’re you still awake.”

“Can’t sleep,” Beth explained, her words followed by the rustling of sheets. “I hate storms,” she added and Peggy could just make out her outline rising from the bed. “Can I join you for a while?”

“Uh…” Peggy’s mouth went dry and her body seized up, though Beth was already untangling herself from her own sheets and padding softly across the hardwood floor.

“I know it’s awfully forward, but ever since I was little it’s always helped to be close to someone during a storm,” she tacked on as if able to sense Peggy’s hesitation.

“Just for a while then,” Peggy reasoned, both with herself and the girl now hovering awkwardly at the edge of her bed. “Just until the storm dies down.” Then she pulled back her sheets and tried not to wince when Beth slid into bed next to her and their knees knocked awkwardly as they lay on their sides facing one another.

“You’re so good Peggy,” Beth whispered, her breath still smelling like strawberry jam from the toast she’d had at supper. “You’ve always been good to me.”

“Hardly,” Peggy scoffed, mainly because she didn’t know what else to say.

“You help me with homework, you save me a place at the lunch table, you wait back for me if I’m late getting out of lessons…” Beth listed off and Peggy was so caught up in the musical lilt in her voice she almost didn’t notice their fingers twisting together. “You hold me when there’s a storm,” she concluded, and even in the half-light Peggy could see her smile.

“You’re a dear friend Beth…” Peggy explained; part of her hoping the explanation would be enough and part of her knowing it wouldn’t.

“You too Peggy.” The last syllable of her name was drown out by a soft, chaste kiss, a bare touching of lips that all at once petrified Peggy and left her craving more.

Her fear could wait until morning though; when she’d push away all thoughts of what Beth felt like in her arms and remember instead what it was she’d been taught by her parents and teachers. Right now though, while lightning cracked to illuminate the room, it was her desire that consumed her when she leaned back in.

-.-.-.-

Upper East Side, New York, 1947:

“I did… didn’t I,” she stammered after a minute. “I kissed you.” She ran her fingers through her knotted hair. “I kissed you…” she repeated, thinking perhaps if she said it enough it would begin to make a little more sense. “Oh god… I kissed you.”

“Peg.” Angie took a breath, attempting to push down the overpowering mixture of fear and hope rising in her chest. “Are you queer?”

Peggy shrugged and ran her hands through her hair again, the fluid motion through her curls stopping half-ways when she grabbed two fistfuls of hair, tugging at them gently while her mind mulled over the question.

“I’m not supposed to be,” she answered finally, dropping her hands to her sides in a show of defeat, leaving her hair dishevelled.

“Hun, no one’s supposed to be.” Angie almost smiled at the choice phrasing – as if anyone was _supposed_ to be any way. “You either is or you ain’t, there’s no real middle ground when it comes to love and attraction.”

“But I’m attracted to men,” Peggy reasoned. “I’ve been in love with men.”

“When I was in hospital there was a girl two rooms down that used to go steady with a fella, she kept screamin’ it at the priests hopin’ they’d let her out sooner,” Angie explained, not quite registering the look of shock that settled on Peggy’s face. “She was in with me because she liked girls the same way though, it’s called bisexuality and as far as priests and therapists are concerned it don’t make much difference.”

“Angie… why were you in hospital?” Peggy asked, reaching out slowly and taking one of Angie’s hands in her own.

“Ah, y’know.” Angie shrugged and looked down at their clasped hands, allowing a tingling warmth to settle in her stomach when Peggy’s fingers brushed across her knuckles. “Catholic family… all that…” something in her tone wasn’t quite right though and Peggy could feel her heart shatter when the younger woman didn’t quite manage to catch her eye.

“What age were you?” She whispered, subconsciously stepping closer until their bodies were almost as flush as they’d been when they’d kissed.

“Sixteen,” Angie mumbled and Peggy could tell from the slight hitch in her voice that this wasn’t something she made a habit of discussing. “But I was a minor when I went in so they had to let me out once I turned eighteen.”

“Two years…” Peggy barely repressed the shudder that ran through her at the mere thought. “Darling I had no idea.”

She’d heard of the kind of institutions Angie was talking about. She’d heard of the brutality of the conversation therapies, how before the war they even took their cues from conversion methods pioneered in Nazi Germany.  She’d heard it all and now the only image she could conjure in her head was Angie, happy, bubbly Angie, having to go through the exact same thing.

“Well it ain’t exactly somethin’ I boast about.” It was Angie’s attempt at humour, though her usual bite just wasn’t there.

“And after how cruel I was to you.” Peggy could feel the tears pricking at the corner of her eyes and she really wished they wouldn’t because now honestly wasn’t the time for Angie to console _her_.

“Hey now,” Angie scolded, looking up from their clasped hands at the sound of the quiver in Peggy’s voice. “You were scared…” She cupped Peggy’s cheek with her free hand. “You panicked…” Her thumb stroked across her cheekbone. “It’s okay…” She drew Peggy’s face closer until their noses bumped. “We’re okay.”

“God…” Peggy gasped around a broken sob, suddenly feeling the pain of her years of repression bubbling up all at once. “What’re we going to do?”

“I don’t know…” Angie whispered, drawing their faces even closer together. “But I want us to figure it out together…” she added, the words nothing more than a breath against Peggy’s lips before they were sealed in a wet kiss.

“Yea…” Peggy murmured, her teeth banging awkwardly against Angie’s. “Together… I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well that's that. i kinda had an idea for how to continue the story but I don't think i'm gonna get time to write it but i figure i might come back to it someday if there's enough interest.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter (hopefully) wasn't too bad but things will probably get pretty heavy over the next few chapters so just like... be warned (Though also don't worry too much, I'll try to mention at the beginning of each chapter anything that might be triggering).
> 
> Also just know... I didn't want to write this, I swear I didn't, but then I got the prompt and my brain just started going to all these dark places and ugh, I hate myself for what I'm gonna do to Anige and Peggy over the next few chapters, I really do...


End file.
